Impeccable
by Ms. Unlucky
Summary: John pulls out his .22 glock, the one his wife insisted he not buy, saying it wasn't safe to have around the kids. Well, she was probably right about the 'Not being safe' part... Character death.


**Author's Stuff ~** Um, this wasn't originally a Supernatural fic, in fact this was just a random short story I wrote... randomly. o_o Uh... So yeah, it's completely AU, and I had to go back through my original story and change the names, so if you see 'Stella' 'Steve' or 'Thomas', replace it with 'Mary' 'John' or 'Dean', M'kay? ;D

**Warnings ~** I don't usually write stuff like this... so... yeah... :/

**Important ~ **In my original story, there was a little girl so instead of Sam, we have _Susie_... Yes I made Sam a girl, bite me. XD

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><p>"Working them late hours John?" Over weight, messy red hair, and annoying high pitched voice, it's as if she never goes home, and that's actually one of the many rumors running around the office about her.<p>

"Yeah Anna, just thought I'd go over the paper work for Boss' new project before I headed home." It's not like it's any of her business, but it's like the woman feeds off the office gossip, likes it's all that keeps her alive. So he keeps the answer simple, lest her over active imagination put him in the spot light of 'who did who' or 'who did what' again.

Gathering up his paper work and putting it back into his brief case, John grabs his suit jacket, puts it on, and fixes his tie.

Gotta be impeccable, Department Manager wasn't exactly a title he could afford to lose with two wonderful kids and a lovely wife at home to feed and clothe.

The trip to the parking garage doesn't take too long, he only works on the tenth floor, but he's had plenty of people tell him that there's a great possibility he can make it to at least the 22nd before he retires.

He settles into his dark blue, Toyota Prius. It's the new thing now a days, or so his wife Mary tells him.

"_Gotta be green, gotta be healthy."_

He supposes that's where the new health diet comes from, he has to admit, she can cook up a mean salad.

The drive home isn't too long, it's way past rush hour, though he's tempted to pull over to a Mc Donald's a few times. Blame those early lunches and late work hours, he muses. But the strict hold on the money flow keeps him in check and he makes it home by 1:30.

He's greeted by the usual site: white picket fence, children's toys scattered here and there, large two story house, every families dream. He parks in the garage, gets out while trying his hardest to stay quiet. He doubts his wife is even awake by now, let alone his two young children.

Making it into the kitchen while only banging into a few pieces of furniture he momentarily forgot they had, he reads a note on the fridge in obsessively curly cursive: _"Dinners in the fridge, Caesar Salad with extra tomato."_

He pokes his head into the fridge for a moment, locates his dinner, makes a mental note that they're out of orange juice, and decides he's not really hungry anymore.

Putting his brief case and coat jacket on the counter for a moment, he heads up stairs to check on his sleeping family.

Little Susie's room is the first door on the left: she fast asleep, her arms curled around an overused teddy bear while she dreams about whatever seven year olds dream about. Unicorns and rainbows was John's first guess, but that just seemed too cliché, surely his little girl was more creative than that, a little more exciting, maybe?

He looks over her pink bedroom walls with dozens of hand drawn pictures of unicorns and other mystical creatures taped to it with a wide toothy smile.

Next room down the hall to the right is Deans': legs and arms spread haphazardly across the bed, his covers tossed to the floor along with all his dirty laundry and clutter unknowingly. His walls are painted black, posters of various well known rock and metal bands taped all over his wall accompanied by numerous half naked women. He was the perfect picture of a conforming _'Nonconformist'_, just like any other 15 year old.

John sighs to himself, he loves his children.

Making the last bit down the hallway, he peaks in on his wife. Beautiful long blond hair, legs that seemed to just go on and on… She was every man's dream, and sometimes John wondered how he managed to be so lucky.

Walking into the room quietly, he pulls the covers up to her chin, and presses a chaste kiss on her forehead. She stirs for a moment, mumbles something incoherent before going back to sleep.

He loves his wife, he loves his kids.

Walking back down stairs, John walks past the kitchen and back into the garage. Looking through his tool box, John pulls out his .22 glock, the one his wife insisted he not buy, saying it wasn't safe to have around kids.

Well, she was probably right about the 'Not being safe' part…

Looking up from his tool box, John looks at an old family picture his wife had placed on his work table a while back: Mary holding 6 month old Susie in her arms, Dean holding daddy's hand, all of them posed _just right_ in front of a blooming Cherry tree somewhere in DC…

He puts down the gun for a moment and picks up a pen and note pad, scribbling down something perhaps too quickly; his hand writing is sloppy.

Ripping out the page and putting it next to the picture, John picks up the gun, puts it to his head, and pulls the trigger. The gun falls from his hand, his body drops like stone to the ground, blood further stains the dirty garage floors.

Mary wakes up at 7 am, wakes the children at 7:15 to get ready for school when coffee is made, and then continues on to make breakfast. Mary walks out to the garage taking out the trash, complaining about "how John could have possibly forgot this time?", devastated by what she sees. The only thing left behind by her husband is a small, sloppy note consisting of one sentence:

"_Don't forget, we're out of orange juice."_

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><p>Ta-Da~ So, was it crap? o.O<p> 


End file.
